


Constellation Series: Distraction

by snailboat64



Series: Constellation Series [4]
Category: Human Target - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snailboat64/pseuds/snailboat64
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guerrero is concerned that Chance finds their new client a bit too distracting and Winston is driven to distraction by both Guerrero and Ames. Ilsa just tries to keep up! Case fic</p><p>All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic (also posted on AO3) called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. Mostly they are one-shots that can be read alone, but I will also be adapting the longer case-fics that make up quite a large chunk of Comfort.</p><p>I am (re)posting these fics for two main reasons: 1. Not everyone likes slash and 2. Comfort is quite a long fic, so not everyone has the time or inclination to wade through it all!</p><p>If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**As always, I don't own Human Target and I make no money from this.**

* * *

It had been a quiet week. The team's last case had been wrapped up with surprisingly little bloodshed for once, and although Chance was still second-guessing whether or not it all could have played out differently, everyone else was content with the fact that it had a satisfactory ending. Their client was safe and the bad guys were either dead or behind bars.

Chance and Guerrero spent most of their time in the old storeroom that served as Chance's gym, doing whatever passed as training to a couple of ex-assassins with time on their hands. As far as Winston could tell, it mostly consisted of them pummelling the crap out of the battered old punching bag that was one of the few things that Ilsa had left alone during the office renovations, interspersed with bouts of beating the crap out of each other.

Winston left them to it, but Ilsa seemed fascinated, but also a little concerned by what they were doing. She stood in the doorway, watching them for a while, until Winston went to ask her if everything was alright.

"It astounds me that two people can subject each other to such punishment and still keep on going back for more," Ilsa said, flinching as Guerrero brought Chance crashing to the ground with a scissor-kick.

"It looks brutal," Winston agreed, "but these two have been doing this for a long time. They're actually being fairly cautious. It's highly unlikely that they'd do each other any serious damage."

"Is this really what they consider to be training?" Ilsa asked, as Chance twisted free from Guerrero's legs and rolled back to his feet.

Winston shrugged, "I suspect this is more a case of letting off some steam."

Ilsa turned away as the two men exchanged a flurry of blows and kicks that she felt sure would result in broken bones. Winston put his arm round her shoulders and gently steered her away from the open door.

"There's really no need for you to watch them fight like savages, Ilsa."

"No, I suppose not," Ilsa sighed.

Winston took her to the kitchen and sat her down with a coffee. From the way she sat there frowning at her mug, he could tell that she was still concerned about Chance.

"He'll be fine in a few days. Trust me," Winston said reassuringly.

"Oh, I trust you Mr Winston, it's just…" she hesitated for a moment. "Shouldn't we be offering Chance some kind of professional counselling? It doesn't seem right, leaving him to Guerrero's tender mercies."

Winston smiled. "I've been trying to get Chance to see a shrink for years, Ilsa. He won't hear of it."

"But leaving it to Guerrero to get him back on an even keel? Is that wise?"

Winston sat down opposite Ilsa and smoothed one hand over his head as he considered the best way to phrase what he had to say.

"Guerrero doesn't give a damn about much in this world, but if there's one person he cares about more than his own sorry hide, it's Chance. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a much better understanding as to what goes on in Chance's head than I do. Just because he doesn't seem to have any scruples of his own, it doesn't mean that he doesn't understand the mental anguish that Chance's own sense of morality puts him through."

Ilsa looked doubtful.

"Hey," Winston said, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, "I never said it made sense!"

"I just think there must be a better way for Chance to deal with his feelings," she said.

"Oh, I agree with you. But try telling that to Chance!"

Ilsa wondered, not for the first time, what she had gotten herself into by getting involved with Chance and his team. They didn't seem to function in the normal way, even at the most basic emotional level, and sometimes she felt as if she would be totally lost without Winston to guide her through the baffling process of dealing with Chance and Guerrero.

She did at least feel that she had some kind of handle on Chance's motivations: he was trying to make amends for his past misdeeds, but Guerrero? He seemed to have no problem with using violence and torture to get results, and he clearly never suffered the crisis of conscience that Chance had. She tried not to dwell on the question of what he did on his own time, and whether or not he adhered to Chance's policy of avoiding killing people whenever possible. It was a mystery how Chance maintained a friendship with possibly the most violent and ruthless person she'd ever met without it conflicting with his personal mission to do something good with his life.

Ilsa had to concede that Guerrero did have his moments though. There were occasions when he would do something that was thoughtful, in his own odd way, but there was always something slightly sinister about it. He had opened a bar tab for Ames, but it had been in an establishment so notoriously dangerous that Ames would have had to be extremely foolish to go there alone. And then there was his gift of the sheaf of paper that he'd told her was the same kind that the US Treasury used to use, before it ran into supply issues. The implications of Guerrero being in possession of such an item were perfectly clear, and the paper still sat in the bottom drawer of her desk, as she wasn't entirely sure as to the legality of her using it.

Nothing about Guerrero was straight-forward.

* * *

"I understand the principle guys. I know it's all about levers and stuff, I'd just rather know how to kick some ass!"

"Forget it, dude. You'd have more luck trying to teach a goldfish. Their attention span is supposed to be a whole three seconds."

Ames glared at Guerrero sullenly. She'd been watching Chance and Guerrero spar all afternoon and she'd finally plucked up the courage to ask Chance to show her some moves, but unfortunately Guerrero had overheard her request. She'd nearly turned on her heel and marched right out of there when he'd laughed at her, but Chance seemed to think that teaching her some basic moves was a good idea, and he'd persuaded her to stay.

"Look, I don't need to know all that weird kung-fu shit that you guys do," she said to Chance. "I just want to be able to throw a decent punch without spraining my wrist!"

"But it's much more likely that you'd be attacked, rather than be the aggressor," Chance explained. "It's going to be far more useful for you to learn how to deal with someone trying to grab you."

"Oh, thanks! " Ames said. "I get to play the helpless little girl until one of you big strong men come and rescue me, is that it?"

"Pretty much," Guerrero muttered. Chance gave him a warning look.

"Ames, this isn't a sexism thing, I'm just trying to be realistic," Chance said patiently. "If you threw your best punch at a guy like me, all you're likely to do is piss him off. Your best option is to avoid confrontation, not initiate it."

"I guess," Ames sighed.

"So let's start with the basics. It's unlikely that you're going to have strength or size on your side, so it really comes down to getting your opponent off-balance and breaking free of his grasp."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it, run away…"

"I told you, dude. It's a waste of time trying to teach lil miss know-it-all," Guerrero said impatiently.

Chance put his hands on Ames' shoulders and turned her so her back was to him, then dropped one hand so he was only gripping one shoulder.

"Okay, so some one grabs you like this. What do you do?"

Ames tried driving her elbow backwards into Chance's stomach, but it had little effect on his muscular bulk.

"That might work if your attacker wasn't expecting you to fight back," Chance said. "Try again."

This time Ames tried to kick back against Chance's shins, but he always seemed to anticipate her moves.

"You see the problem?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess," Ames said.

"You can't make me let go just by random flailing about. You need to use my hold on you to your advantage. Guerrero?"

Guerrero glared at them but reluctantly stood behind Chance and put one hand on his right shoulder, as if he were attacking him. Chance twisted round, throwing his right arm backwards and over Guerrero's attacking arm, locking it against his body so they were face to face with Chance holding Guerrero in an arm lock.

"I now have him off-balance, he's let go of my shoulder and I still have one hand free to jab my fingers in his eyes or to drive the heel of my hand into his nose."

"Now that's more like it!" Ames said, perking up at the idea of poking an attacker's eyes out. "Show me that again, slower this time."

Guerrero grumbled about being used as an attack dummy, but he begrudgingly went along with it. Ames surprised them by picking up the techniques pretty quickly and Chance even promised to show her a few throws next time.

After an hour or so, Chance could see that Guerrero's patience with the project was wearing wafer-thin so they called it a day.

"Same time tomorrow?" Ames asked hopefully.

"Sure. Why not?" Chance said, much to Guerrero's annoyance.

"You know she's going to be even more unbearable now," Guerrero said once Ames had left.

"It can't hurt for her to know how to take care of herself," Chance replied.

"No, but I'm willing to bet she's dying to try out those moves you showed for real. We so don't need her getting any big ideas in the middle of a job."

"I'm sticking strictly to the defensive stuff for now. I'm sure she won't cause too much trouble with that."

"I hope you're right, dude."

They sparred for a while, but Chance found that Guerrero was taking out his frustration about being made to act as a practice dummy for Ames out on him. After he dropped Chance on his ass for the third time in as many minutes, Chance decided to call it a day.

"Is it really necessary for you to keep doing that?" Chance protested. "You know my knee is still a bit dodgy."

Guerrero shrugged unsympathetically. "Not my problem dude. You really think a real opponent would make allowances for an existing weakness?"

Chance didn't get the opportunity to reply as Winston stormed in angrily.

"What the hell have you two maniacs been teaching Ames?" Winston roared. "She had her earphones in and when I tapped her on the shoulder she damn near poked my eyes out!"

"Told you, dude," Guerrero said with a smirk, before walking out and leaving Chance to explain Ames' actions to Winston.


	2. Chapter 2

Once Chance had smoothed things over with Winston somewhat, reducing the volume of his protests from a deafening roar to a mere shout, Winston told him that Ilsa had a case for the team. Chance excused himself and went to find Ilsa. When he was safely out of Winston's sight, he allowed himself the broad grin that had been threatening to break out at the thought of Ames surprising an unsuspecting Winston with her new moves.

"Chance, you're looking…"

"Sweaty?" Chance said, smiling at the way Ilsa seemed to be slightly flustered by his appearance in her office.

"I was going to say 'much better', but as you brought it up, you could use a shower," she said wrinkling her nose.

"Winston said we have a case."

"Yes, we do. Of a sort. It's a straight-forward matter. More of a favour for a friend of mine than a real case. I thought it would be something to ease you back into things, and of course you'd be doing me a huge favour…"

"Cut to the chase, Ilsa. What's the job?"

Ilsa paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to take offence at Chance's interruption. He gave her a smile and tilted his head to one side to indicate that he was listening and she sighed. Sometimes it was hard to remain aloof when he turned on the charm like that.

"I have a friend who has just been through a nasty divorce…"

"If this is a setup Ilsa, you can stop right there. I'm not interested."

"Let me finish!" Ilsa said. "She has been through a nasty divorce and over the last few weeks she has been receiving anonymous death threats."

"From the ex?"

"It seems more than likely, yes. At first she dismissed them as nothing more than her ex-husband playing games, but over the last couple of days the threats have become much more specific."

"Has she gone to the police?"

"Yes, but aside from having a couple of plain clothes officers sitting in a car outside her building, there seems to be little they can do to help. There's nothing to tie the death threats to the ex-husband, so unless they actually catch him in the act…"

"Their hands are tied," Chance said. "You said the threats had become more specific. How so?"

"It's her birthday and her parents are throwing her a party tonight. It was supposed to be a surprise but when she received this… well it rather let the cat out of the bag."

Ilsa pushed a plain black envelope across her desk to Chance. He opened it and examined the contents. It was a black edged obituary notice for Alison Mcvey.

"Wait, your friend is Alison Mcvey? The actress?"

Ilsa nodded.

"So that would make her ex-husband…"

"Her one time co-star and former bodyguard, Joseph Seymour. Read the rest of the card."

The card had tomorrow's date printed in the corner and it was an obituary that detailed how Allison Mcvey was executed in front of the guests at her surprise birthday party. Not only did the sender of the card spell out when and where he planned to kill the actress, it also made it clear that they had detailed information about the party.

"Whoever sent this knows the time, the date, the location of the party, and almost certainly the guest list too." Chance said, placing the card back in the envelope and handing it back to Ilsa. "If her ex-husband is behind this, he'll must be familiar with the house and any security measures they have in place. The best thing to do is to cancel the party."

"I know," Ilsa sighed, "but she won't hear of it. She hasn't told her family about the threats and as far as they're concerned the party is still a surprise. Things got so ugly when the press got hold of the details of their break-up, Joseph made some terrible accusations, but her parents stood by her through it all. They've been through so much already, Alison doesn't want to take this party away from them. She's finally free of that vile man and she won't allow him to control her life like this."

"If she's really going to insist on going ahead with the party, she must at least warn her family so they can increase security."

"Alison doesn't think that will be necessary. There are going to be a number of very high-profile guests in attendance so security will already be extremely tight. Besides, they will already be on the look-out for Joseph in case he's heard about the party and is planning to gatecrash it."

"The party starts in less than three hours. What do you want me to do?"

"I promised Alison that I wouldn't tell her parents about the threats on one condition. I need you to go undercover as her date. Her parents can't know that you're there to protect her from Joseph. She wants the threat kept quiet until after the party."

"So, bottom line: you want me to get spruced up, attend a celebrity party and be the arm-candy for your seriously hot actress friend?" Chance asked with an amused little smile.

"Well yes, I suppose you could put it like that…"

"Okay, count me in," Chance said.

"I will be attending the party as a guest and Winston will accompany me." Ilsa ignored the curious look Chance gave her and pressed on. "Ames will blend in with the catering crew and Guerrero will monitor the security footage from the surveillance van. Between us we should be able to keep Alison safe, and her parents need not know."

"You got Winston on the guest list then?"

"No, he will be my date," Ilsa said, giving Chance a look that dared him to make an issue out of it.

"Okay, well I guess I'd better go get cleaned up," he said.

Ilsa wrinkled her nose again. "Please do!"

Chance couldn't deny it; Alison Mcvey was ever bit as breath-takingly beautiful in the flesh as she was on the big screen. Her trademark auburn hair was swept up in an elegant cascade of curls that exposed her delicate neck and drew attention to her slightly too round green eyes. In an industry that always had a glut of interchangeable, near-identical blonde actresses, Alison Mcvey stood out as a striking natural beauty, and despite all the gory details of her personal life being fodder for the tabloid press for months now, her star was very much on the rise. Chance could see why.

Ilsa hurriedly made the introductions in the back room of the restaurant where Alison would 'accidentally' bump into her parents who would then invite her back to their home for 'drinks'.

"Alison, this is my business associate, Christopher Chance. He will be at your side for the whole evening to ensure that if Joseph is foolish enough to try something, you will be protected at all times."

"Mr Chance, thank you so much for agreeing to help me, and at such short notice too!"

"I'm only too happy to help, Miss Mcvey," Chance said, turning on the charm and giving her a confident smile. "But I do work with a cover, so you'll need to call me Matthew King. We met at a charity event three weeks ago and this is our second date."

"Of course," Alison replied. "Matthew King. I will remember that. And what do you do for a living, Matthew King?"

"I'm in real estate," Chance said, privately amused by the way the young actress seemed to be approaching the evening's deception as an acting role.

"Is there anything else I need to know?" she asked.

"It's only our second date so no one can reasonably expect us to know each other very well just yet," Chance explained. "All you really need to know is that my team and I will keep you safe. I need to be able to see you at all times, and if anything - and I mean anything at all - seems suspicious or out of the ordinary, you must let me know immediately."

"Of course, Matthew," she replied, smiling.

"I really must leave for the party," Ilsa said, satisfied that the necessary introductions had been made. "It wouldn't do to run into your parents now, would it? I'll leave you in Mr Chance's capable hands. Or should that be Mr King's capable hands?"

"Ilsa dear, you're babbling," Alison said with an affectionate smile. "We'll see you at the party later."

Ilsa left and a waiter led them to a private table towards the rear of the restaurant. Chance guessed that the secluded table was reserved for guests like Alison Mcvey who required a little more discretion than the average customer, but it suited their needs well. No one could approach them without running the gauntlet of the busy, crowded restaurant where Alison's rather conspicuous police protective detail sat monitoring the door. Behind them was an emergency exit, which only opened from the inside, should they need a fast exit, and Guerrero was patched into the security feed from the restaurant itself as well as the traffic cameras for the surrounding area. Alison was about as safe as she could be in a public restaurant, so there was no reason why they couldn't enjoy their meal.

"How do you know Ilsa?" Chance asked.

"Well, we actually did meet at a charity event," Alison smiled. "It was at a fundraiser for an after school drama project for underprivileged kids."

 _"Goddamn, motherfucking useless pieces of shit!"_

Chance tried to concentrate on listening to Alison explain how she had become involved with the Marshall Pucci Foundation, but the voices coming through his earpiece were becoming increasingly loud.

 _"Mrs Pucci, you are a vision!"_

 _"Why thank you, Mr Winston! You are looking rather dapper yourself!"_

 _"Stupid cock-sucker Jimmy Choo! I'm going to be fucking crippled by the end of the night!"_

 _"Quit bitching Ames. No one asked you to wear those ridiculous things."_

 _"Yeah, well I didn't know I was going to have to be a fucking waitress tonight, did I?"_

Chance smiled politely as Alison talked, but the bickering between Guerrero and Ames in his earpiece was making it impossible to make out much of what she was saying. For a while he could get away with the odd nod and smile, but eventually there reached a point when Alison was looking at him as if she were waiting for a reply to a question he hadn't even heard her ask.

"I'm sorry Alison, will you please excuse me for a moment? I seem to be having a small technical hitch."

"Of course," she replied, looking a little bemused.

Chance turned away from her for a moment, but it was a fairly useless gesture as she could still hear him as he hissed at Guerrero through the comms link.

"Guerrero! What the hell? You guys are deafening me here!"

 _"Sorry bro. Having a little trouble adjusting the levels. Winston set up the comms rig tonight and it's a friggin' mess."_

 _"Hey! Don't you blame this on me, I…"_

Winston's voice cut out.

 _"Any better?"_

"Yeah a bit. I can still hear Ames complaining about her shoes though."

 _"I'm working on it dude."_

"Just so long as I can hear everyone when we get to the party."

 _"Shouldn't be a problem. And Chance?"_

"What?"

 _"Try the lamb. It's awesome."_

Guerrero leaned back in his seat and adjusted the volume levels on Chance's earpiece so that Ames' constant muttered complaints were slightly less deafening.

Guerrero knew who Alison Mcvey was, even before Ilsa dumped the case on the team at the last minute. Hell, just about everyone in the western world was familiar with her name, and when her last movie came out it was impossible not to walk past a billboard or pick up a magazine without seeing her wide-eyed and pouting face staring back. Her career had been on hiatus for a while, as she went through her divorce, but thanks to her now ex-husband's numerous kiss-and-tell stories, barely a week went by without her being on the cover of one publication or another.

The lurid stories that Joseph Seymour had fed the tabloids were just the usual Hollywood mud-slinging: drugs, diva-ish behaviour and tales of affairs, lesbian and otherwise. Guerrero neither knew nor cared how much truth there was to the ex-husbands claims, but watching the beautiful young woman demurely picking at a green leaf salad opposite Chance in the restaurant, he was inclined to believe that they were lies. He could picture her using some less-than-legal diet pills, maybe even abusing a few prescribed sleeping pills or tranquilisers, but the stories of coke fuelled orgies seemed most unlikely.

Joseph Seymour had been a nobody until the studio hired him as security and assigned him to watch over Alison when she filmed on location in Thailand. Romance had seemed to bloom between them, and they got married on their return to the States. Alison even managed to get him a part in one of her movies, but that was when their two year marriage began to fall apart. Guerrero hadn't followed the story through choice, but Ames' had followed every lurid detail, and as much as he tried to tune her out as she read aloud the latest scandals, some of the information had stuck. Eventually Guerrero managed to train her out of reading him whatever she considered to be newsworthy by simply tossing the offending material out of the nearest window, a method that only achieved partial success until the day he tossed her Kindle out of the window of the Eldo.

Guerrero was amused to see that Chance did actually order the lamb, and watching him eat was starting to make him feel hungry. He reached for his bag, never once taking his eyes off the screen, and pulled out a sandwich. He didn't really expect Seymour to make a move whilst Alison was still at the restaurant. The fake obituary had made it pretty clear that he wanted an audience when he killed his ex-wife. If the threat was genuine, and they had to assume for the client's sake that it was, Seymour was not concerned about being caught. Judging from the way he'd sold his story to anyone who'd listen, Seymour seemed hell-bent on achieving fame at any cost. Any hope of an acting career of his own had evaporated once he dragged Alison Mcvey's name through the dirt, so perhaps he was planning to kill her to at least achieve notoriety, seeing as fame had escaped his grasp.

Guerrero had killed for many reasons, well mostly for money but there had been other reasons too, but killing someone just to get noticed was not one of them. He didn't subscribe to Chance's 'nobody deserves to die' philosophy, but the idea of killing someone publicly to get the world's attention and then either go out in a hail of bullets, or worse sit around on death row milking every last bit of fame you could, was something that Guerrero found distasteful. Not to mention a waste of a smoking hot actress.

Guerrero sighed and took another bite of his sandwich. Something about Alison Mcvey just didn't ring true, and he was struggling to put his finger on exactly what that was. He could certainly appreciate Alison's soft curves and the way her simple but stylish green dress clung to them in all the right places, but something was telling him to look past her movie star looks and make sure that she and Chance didn't get too close. Chance was in his element, putting Alison at her ease whilst still discreetly monitoring their surroundings for any sign of trouble, and Guerrero had to admit that they looked good together.

 _ _Isn't this what Chance really wants? What he deserves?__ Guerrero thought. __He should have a gorgeous woman at his side, putting a smile on his face.__

But he couldn't ignore the spectre of Chance's relationship with Maria looming in the back of his mind, or the endless "will they, won't they" dance that Chance and Ilsa seemed locked into performing indefinitely. It was a sad fact that a single Chance was a much more stable and reliable Chance, but it was a fact nonetheless.

Eventually Alison's parents showed up at the restaurant and insisted that she and her date must join them for drinks. Guerrero tried to ignore the rush of relief that the part of the evening that Chance would spend alone with Alison was finally over, and quickly restored the settings of Chance's earpiece to a level at which he could hear everyone without being deafened.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Ames! Do you think you could stop cursing? You're no use to us if you get kicked out of the party!"_

"Relax Winston, I'm in the ladies restroom. No one can hear me but you guys."

Ames looked down at her footwear in despair. The black snakeskin, lace-up ankle boots with four and a half inch heels would have been perfect for strutting her stuff at a bar and then maybe a nightclub.

She had treated herself to the $1000 pair of Jimmy Choos when she got her first pay-check from Ilsa. It had been the first honest-to-God pay-check she'd ever received, and she'd decided to blow it on something to remember. Walking into that boutique and slapping down the cash on the counter as she popped her gum in the face of the snooty shop attendant had been a total rush, and she'd wished that Brody had been there to see her do it.

Ames knew they weren't the most comfortable boots to wear for any length of time, and she'd even worn sneakers all day to give her feet a rest before she slipped them on for the night. Had she met up with her friends as planned, she would have had to have spent half the evening sitting down to avoid getting blisters the size of golf balls, but there was no chance of her being able to do that whilst waitressing at Alison Mcvey's party. Acquiring a uniform that allowed her to blend in with the other waitresses had been as simple as breaking into the catering van and helping herself, but she was stuck with her own footwear.

 _"What's taking you so long? Get the camera hooked up and get your ass out of that bathroom!"_

"It's not that easy Guerrero! How am I supposed to attach a button cam to a uniform with no freakin' buttons? What do you want me to do? Stick it to my face and pretend it's a beauty spot?"

 _"Improvise."_

Her uniform consisted of a figure-hugging black shift dress that was fastened by a zipper up one side. Apart from the ridiculously lacy apron that she was expected to wear, there was nothing to break the line of the dress, and therefore nowhere to conceal the button cam.

"Improvise, improvise," she muttered to herself. "Wait! I've got it!"

She slipped one of her earrings out and carefully used it to work a tiny hole in the fabric of her dress over where her bra-strap met the left cup. Ensuring the tiny button shaped camera was turned away from her at all times, she lined it up behind the miniscule hole in her dress.

"How's that?" she asked.

 _"Upside-down."_

She rolled her eyes and readjusted the camera. "Now?"

 _"Yeah, that will have to do."_

Ames spat out her gum and used it to stick the camera to her bra-strap and hold the fabric of the dress in place. It wasn't perfect, but as long as she didn't wave her arms around, it should hold.

* * *

Alison's look of surprise and squeals of delight when her parents led her out to the candle-lit gazebo in the garden to a resounding chorus of 'Happy Birthday' seemed a little overdone to Guerrero's cynical eye. Chance, however, was convincing as the clueless date who suddenly found himself in the middle of a star-studded celebrity party, and he stayed at her side as she worked the crowd, greeting each guest as if they were a long-lost friend. The way Chance kept looking around could easily be mistaken for nervousness on his part, but Guerrero knew that he was really mapping the layout of the garden, locating the security cameras and staff, and generally familiarising himself with the party and its guests.

When Alison downed her fourth glass of champagne inside an hour, Guerrero found himself reviewing his earlier assumption that she wasn't likely to be the party girl her ex made her out to be.

"Chance, you keeping an eye on how much she's drinking?"

 _"Yeah, but I could use a little help here."_

"Ames, how about keeping Alison's glass full? Make sure you're serving her Champagne that's watered down with some Perrier," Guerrero said.

 _"I'm on it, G. Or at least I will be if I can get past this guy with the wandering hands."_

Guerrero checked the feed from Ames' button cam and was just in time to see the over-friendly man receive an elbow to the stomach and then yelp and limp away.

 _"I'm sooo sorry. Was that your foot?"_

Guerrero smirked. Ames was obviously putting those ridiculous heels to good use. He had over a dozen different camera angles to monitor, but so far there was little to report. The walkie-talkie tuned into the frequency the security staff were using crackled into life at regular intervals as they each checked in, but they seemed to have nothing to report either. Winston and Ilsa were discreetly patrolling the garden, often stopping when Ilsa was approached by people she knew. She kept the pleasantries short but polite, and any time someone tried to draw her further into conversation, Winston was there to help extricate her.

Guerrero was beginning to wonder if the whole thing was just a hoax and a complete waste of the team's time.

* * *

Alison Mcvey was turning out to be quite a handful, once she'd got a few drinks inside her. Chance soon regretted not pressing her to order something more substantial than a green salad at the restaurant earlier. At least if she'd eaten a decent meal there would be something to soak up all the champagne she was knocking back. She certainly wasn't behaving as if she were afraid for her life.

"Oh, Matthew! You're so serious!" she laughed, dragging Chance on to the makeshift dance floor in front of the band. "Dance with me! It __is__ my birthday!"

Thankfully the band was a trendy, indie outfit, all acoustic guitars and tambourines rather than a full scale rock band, so Chance could still make out the voices of the team in his earpiece. Normally he would consider slow dancing with a stunning young woman as one of the perks of the job, but the way that Alison was behaving was starting to put his teeth on edge. With the party in full swing, she seemed to be ignoring the threat to her life, and that would only make things more complicated if her ex did show up.

 _"Oh my god! Chance is slow dancing with Alison Mcvey!"_ Ames cooed via his earpiece. _"Chance! You should so ask her out!"_

 _"Go for it, dude. She's definitely into you."_

Chance had to bite back his sarcastic reply, but some of his feelings about Alison's behaviour must have leaked into his expression.

"Is there a problem?" Alison asked, looking only mildly concerned.

"No," Chance said, forcing his feet to move in time with the music. "Just my team checking in. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried," she said, nestling into Chance's chest as they swayed in time to the music. "I've got you."

As the band wound down their set, Alison's parents stepped up onto the stage and her mother took the microphone. She stood there for a moment, waiting to get everyone's full attention as the people on the dance floor shuffled to a halt. There were still people around the edge of the gazebo who were too wrapped up in their conversations to notice the Mcveys on the stage, so she tapped a long manicured nail against the microphone a few times until her audience settled down.

"I'd like to thank you all for joining us to celebrate the birthday of our darling daughter, Alison." She paused as the guests clapped and some of the more inebriated ones whooped and whistled. Mr Mcvey leaned into the microphone and asked, "Alison, would you please step up on to the stage?"

Alison giggled as her guests cheered her on, and she dragged Chance onto the stage with her. Mrs Mcvey gave the band a nod and they began to play 'Happy Birthday'. Chance wasn't particularly happy with being dragged up there, but he tried to use his new vantage point to get a good look at the crowd and check for anything or anyone suspicious. The crowd parted and an enormous, elaborately decorated birthday cake was carried up towards the stage by two men in chef whites. He quickly dismissed them as genuine members of the catering staff and went back to scanning the crowd. Alison stood at the front of the stage and made a great show of leaning down and blowing out the single silver candle that sat on top of the cake amidst the flowers and hummingbirds delicately crafted out of sugar.

As the guests cheered, Chance saw that the security guard at the rear of the gazebo had his radio pressed to his ear and was reaching for his gun as he backed out of the doorway. Before he could do anything, Alison threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a messy kiss, much to the delight of her guests. He could just about make out the sound of Guerrero cursing through his earpiece. As soon as he managed to disentangle himself from Alison's embrace, he pressed his hand to his ear.

"Guerrero what's going on?"

 _"Just lost the feed on the Mcvey's cameras."_


	4. Chapter 4

The screens in the surveillance van cut out just as Alison and Chance kissed, and Guerrero couldn't help thinking, _Great. Here we go again_.

The radio was buzzing with the frantic voices of the security staff. Only Ames' button cam seemed to be up and working.

 _"Guerrero what's going on?"_

"Just lost the feed on the Mcvey's cameras."

He tore off the headset he'd been wearing and replaced it with an earpiece, and grabbed his gun, mentally running through his options. What he wanted to do was to find Chance and be there to back him up, but for all the cameras to cut out at once like that, it suggested that Seymour was in the Mcvey house, so heading him off there would mean that he never even got close to Chance and the client.

Guerrero tried to push the image of Alison Mcvey and Chance from his mind as he threw open the doors to the surveillance van and hit the ground at a dead run. He'd gone maybe ten feet before he felt something smash into his head, knocking him to the ground and sending his gun skittering away from him. His vision began to dim as he lay stunned, face down on the asphalt of the access road behind the McVey property, and it was with sheer willpower alone that Guerrero managed to drag himself back from the brink of unconsciousness.

All he could see of his assailant were his black leather boots, denim-clad legs and the baseball bat hanging from one hand. Guerrero's ears were ringing from the force of the blow to his head, and although the pain had yet to kick in, there was a sense of pressure as his skull seemed to throb in time with his racing heart beat. There was no time to curse the stupidity of charging head first out of the van without first checking his surroundings, he would berate himself later. He held perfectly still as the black boots stepped closer, and waited until the baseball bat disappeared from view as the man brought it up for another swing at his head before he moved. He kicked out at the man's knee with enough force to bend it back with a sickening crunch, and as the man screamed in pain and began to topple over, Guerrero lashed out with a sweeping kick that knocked the man's uninjured leg out from under him.

The man in the black leather boots hit the ground hard not two feet away from Guerrero, cursing and screaming. Guerrero tried to push himself back up onto his feet, but he didn't get much further than getting to his hands and knees before his vision began to dim again and the world seemed to lurch sideways. He shook his head, trying to regain his equilibrium and fighting the need to vomit. He glanced over at the man in the black boots and realised that his assailant wasn't Joseph Seymour. His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, but he had to warn Chance that Seymour wasn't acting alone. He was struggling to find the necessary words when he saw the man reach for a seven inch combat knife from the sheath tucked into his boot.

The only sound Guerrero managed was a groan before the man rolled towards him with the knife. He lunged towards him with a clumsy overhand stabbing motion aimed at his neck, but Guerrero deflected the blade with his forearm and simultaneously kicked at the man's shattered knee. The man crashed into him, knocking him on to his back, but somehow Guerrero kept the momentum going enough to roll them across the ground until he was on top of the guy, twisting the knife out of his grasp. He only just managed to disarm him before another wave of nausea and dizziness hit. The man punched him in the side of the face and stars danced in front of Guerrero's eyes as he grappled to maintain control of the knife. He could barely see as he twisted the knife so it was point down over the man's chest. His hands felt slippery with blood, and he wondered for a second whose blood it was, before he realised it was dripping from his own arm. He must have caught the edge of the blade when he had deflected the knife.

His mind was wandering and his head was throbbing as his vision kept fading in and out. If he didn't end the fight soon he was certain to black out. He used the only advantage he had left to him, driving his knee into the man's injured leg and dropping his full body weight on to the knife held between them. The renewed pain in his leg was enough to make the man relax his grip on the knife slightly, and with Guerrero's body weight behind it, the blade slid between his ribs. Guerrero rolled away from the man, noting with some satisfaction that the fast, raspy breathing and the red foam coming from the man's mouth indicated that he'd pierced his lung. Without medical treatment, he'd be dead in minutes.

Guerrero lay on his side and fought the rising darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He still had to warn Chance that Seymour was not working alone.

"Not… alone…" Guerrero said, forcing the words out as he felt himself fading away.

 _"Guerrero? What's happening?"_

The sound of Chance's voice spurred him on to make one last effort to speak. "Seymour got….help…"

 _"Answer me! Guerrero?"_

The last thing Guerrero heard was Chance calling his name.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chance barely managed to catch Guerrero's warning over the sound of the party guests cheering and calling out for him to give Alison another kiss. He heard enough to know that Guerrero was injured and in trouble, but he also knew that he couldn't leave Alison's side. Winston and Ilsa were outside the gazebo and had been able to hear Guerrero much more clearly. Winston was already barking orders at Ames, telling her to get back to the van and help Guerrero. For once, Ames didn't argue.

 _"Chance! Did you hear that? Seymour isn't working alone! He's cut the security feed! Ames has gone to check on Guerrero but we need to get Alison out of here!"_

Winston's voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel rather than from the tiny device tucked in his ear. Chance was struggling to focus on his voice over the noise of the party, and the feeling of dread that was gnawing him away from the inside at the thought of Guerrero being in trouble. Reluctantly, he pushed his feelings aside and let his professional instincts take over.

"No, we're staying here," Chance said. "We don't know where Seymour is or how many people he has backing him up. It's too risky. We stick to the plan. Let him come to us."

"What's going on?" Mrs Mcvey demanded.

Alison shook her head, trying to signal to Chance that he shouldn't tell her mother about the threat.

"Did you say Seymour was here?" Alison's father demanded, frowning.

Chance quickly weighed up the pros and cons of tell the Mcveys what was going on. Alison may be easier to manage if he kept his mouth shut, but sooner or later he was going to have to draw his gun, and it was wiser to make sure that the Mcveys knew up front that he was there to protect their daughter, rather than having to explain it when Seymour made his move. He ushered them over to the side of the stage, much to the disappointment of the rowdy guests. Fortunately when the catering staff began removing the decorations and cutting into what turned out to be a rich chocolate cake, the guests seemed to lose interest in Chance and the Mcveys.

"I'm not Alison's date, I'm her bodyguard," Chance explained. "Alison hired me and my team to protect her from Joseph Seymour. We have reason to believe he will make an attempt on her life tonight, here at the party."

Alison was livid. She slapped Chance across the face and began to cry. Strangely though, her parents didn't look that surprised. Mrs Mcvey put a comforting arm around her daughter's shoulders and exchanged a worried look with her husband.

"You knew," Chance said.

"We received a… card this morning," Mr Mcvey said.

"An obituary notice for Alison," Chance said.

"She doesn't need to know that!" Mrs Mcvey hissed, trying to cover Alison's ears.

"It's okay, mom," she sniffed, pulling her mother's hands away from her ears. "I got one too. That's why Mr Chance is here."

To Chance's surprise, Mr Mcvey pulled a small calibre gun from a concealed holster beneath his jacket.

"Please, put that away!" Chance said. "If your guests see a gun it's likely to cause a panic!"

Reluctantly, Mr Mcvey tucked the weapon back out of sight.

"Seymour is here and he's not alone," Chance said. "Do you have any idea who could be helping him?"

Alison nodded.

"Who are they? This is very important, Alison. I need to know how many people we're dealing with."

"Joseph always had a little gang of friends he hung out with," she explained. "Not a real gang, just hangers-on. I used to joke about them being his entourage…"

"How many, Alison?"

She shrugged. "It varied. They came and went, but there were always three guys that were always around. The others just showed up when there were parties or when they wanted… something."

Drugs, money, the kind of women you could pay by the hour. Chance could fill in the blanks himself.

"Winston, it looks like we're dealing with Seymour plus at least three more guys."

As soon as the words left Chance's mouth, two gunshots rang out in rapid succession. The effect was immediate as the guests went into full-scale panic, some running for the exits, others diving under the tables, and few froze in terror until they were dragged to the ground by their companions.

Chance grabbed Alison's wrist and dragged her to the back of the stage, hoping her parents to have the good sense to follow. He pushed her to the floor and took the knife that he kept strapped to his ankle and cut through the duct tape that was holding down the wiring for the PA system. As he pulled the tape away it revealed a narrow crack between two of the flooring panels of the stage. He slipped the knife between them and levered one of the panels up. There wasn't much space beneath the stage, but given the lack of cover in the gazebo, it was the best he could do. He shoved Alison towards the hole.

"Stay down there and don't move!"

"But my parents…" Alison protested as Chance helped her climb down.

"Winston, what's going on?" he asked ignoring Alison's pleas.

" _ _It looks like a gunman just took out the protective detail!"__

Chance swore. He hadn't expected the two plainclothes cops who were supposed to be monitoring the arrival of the guests from the house to be much of an asset anyway, but he'd hoped they'd at least provide back up for the Mcveys' private security.

There was a second flurry of gunfire from outside the gazebo, and Chance could see the muzzle flash light up the canvas near the entrance. Alison's father seemed determined to stand his ground, facing the gunfire with his gun pointed towards the doorway, but his wife was pulling at his sleeve and begging him to hide.

"I'm not letting that bastard lay a finger on my little girl!"

"Please Walter! We need to hide!"

Chance grabbed Mr Mcvey's shoulder. "Sir, I need you to watch the back exit, to make sure no one circles round behind us! Can you do that for me?"

He stared at the front of the gazebo for a moment, before nodding his head in agreement and dropping down to ground level behind the stage.

"Ma'am? You need to follow your husband!"

With the Mcvey's tucked safely out of sight, Chance jumped down in front of the stage and took cover behind an upturned table.

"Ames! Have you found Guerrero?"

 _"Yes! He's by the van, but I can't wake him up!"_

"Has he been shot? Is he breathing?"

 _"Yes, he's breathing. There's a guy with a knife in his chest too! It looks like he went after Guerrero with a baseball bat!"_

 _  
He's breathing… He's alive…  
_  
That was about as much as he had to think before the urgency of the situation reasserted itself.

 _"Chance! I got the gunman but it wasn't Seymour!"_ Winston yelled. _"I repeat: it wasn't Seymour! He's still out there somewhere!"_

"Take Ilsa and start moving the guests inside the house! Barricade yourselves inside if you have to! And be careful, Seymour has at least one other guy with him!"


	5. Chapter 5

Outside the gazebo was pandemonium. Winston had managed to commandeer a walkie-talkie and was trying to coordinate the Mcvey's security, herding the guests into the house, away from the gunfire. Their orders had been to protect the Mcveys at all costs and they were resisting their new instructions, but when Winston flashed them a fake FBI ID, they reluctantly fell into line. There was a chance that whoever cut the security feed was still in the house, so Winston sent a couple of security guards to check the room that held the house's surveillance hub. They reported back that the equipment had been trashed, but there was no sign of the intruders.

There was no time to check the entire house, but as Alison was the intended target and the cameras were down, there was no reason to believe that Seymour or his men would linger inside. Chance was right, getting the guests indoors seemed the best option.

"Winston, give me a gun," Ilsa said.

He was busy directing the security staff to organise a search of the garden, so at first he didn't really take in what she was saying.

"A gun, Winston," she persisted. "Give me your gun!"

Her words finally seemed to register, and he turned to answer her. "You don't need a gun, Ilsa. You're safe enough here with me."

"But I'm not staying here, Winston," she said impatiently. "Ames is out there, unarmed! Guerrero is hurt! I'm not leaving them out there on their own!"

"Ames is a tough kid, she'll be fine…"

"This is not negotiable, Mr Winston! Give me your gun!"

Another shot burst of gunfire tore through the evening air provoking further panic and screaming amongst the guests. Ilsa decided to take advantage of Winston being distracted by the reports of a second gunman holed up in a tool shed that were coming through the radio. She crouched down and carefully lifted the leg of Winston's pants. As she had hoped, he was carrying a secondary firearm, and she delicately unsnapped the holster and slide the gun out. Winston was so distracted that he didn't realise what she done until he felt a slight pull at his ankle, but by then it was too late. Ilsa had slipped off her heels and run off into the darkness.

* * *

Ames was trying very hard not to panic. She'd found Guerrero not far from the surveillance van, but he was out cold, and once she'd established that he was still alive and breathing, she didn't know what else to do. The shock of seeing Guerrero looking so lifeless meant that it took her a little while to put together what had happened. Once she had reassured herself that Guerrero was still alive, she checked on the body of the man lying a few feet away. The knife sticking out of his chest made it pretty obvious that he was dead, and the baseball bat nearby explained why Guerrero was unconscious.

Ames could hear bursts of gunfire coming from the direction of the party, so she checked the body for weapons, but he didn't seem to have a gun. She stood up and gave the body a good kick on Guerrero's behalf, but also to make herself feel better. That proved to be a mistake. The impact of her boot against the dead man's ribcage not only made her foot hurt like hell, it also forced more bloody foam from the man's mouth. Ames staggered away from the body and threw up by the side of the road. When she saw that there was blood on her boots she took them off and threw them into the bushes.

Something caught her eye, a small shadow on the road where there shouldn't have been one. She walked over and crouched down: it was Guerrero's gun. She picked it up and it made her feel a little less vulnerable. She went back to where Guerrero was lying and sat down on the asphalt next to him, unsure of what to do next.

 _"Ames! Have you found Guerrero?"_

"Yes! He's by the van, but I can't wake him up!"

 _"Has he been shot? Is he breathing?"_

"Yes, he's breathing. There's a guy with a knife in his chest too! It looks like he went after Guerrero with a baseball bat!"

She waited, hoping that someone would throw her a lifeline, to tell her what to do, but all she could hear was more gunfire and Winston shouting orders to the security staff. Chance and Winston were obviously in it up to their necks, which left her to help Guerrero, but how? Should she call 911? The police were probably on their way anyway, the gunfire can't have gone unnoticed, but the last thing Guerrero would want would be to end up in the hands of the authorities, and he was lying not six feet away from a dead body! Guerrero's prints were bound to be all over the knife, should she wipe it clean, or get rid of it? Or should she try and get Guerrero in the van and get them both out of there? Guerrero's face was bruised and bloody and he must have at least a bad concussion to be knocked out cold; could she even risk moving him?

When she heard Ilsa's voice over the comms link demanding that Winston give her a gun, she could have sobbed with relief, but she was absolutely not going to cry. She's heard the concern in Chance's voice earlier and she wasn't going to distract him further by crying.

"Ames! Are you okay?"

Ilsa seemed to appear out of nowhere and then she was there, holding Ames as she shook with the effort of not letting herself cry. Ames nodded.

Ilsa dropped to her knees and checked Guerrero's pulse and his breathing. She thought about slapping his face to try to bring him round, but it was already such a bruised and bloody mess that she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Guerrero? Guerrero, can you hear me?"

There was no response. Ilsa opened her clutch purse, relieved that she'd managed to keep hold of it despite the unfolding chaos of the evening, and pulled out her cell phone to dial 911.

"Are you crazy? Guerrero hates hospitals! And what about the body? He'll go apeshit if the cops turn up!"

"He needs a doctor, Ames! And he's in no position to argue! Let me worry about the police."


	6. Chapter 6

Chance heard the exchange between Ilsa and Ames through his earpiece. Ames was right, Guerrero was not likely to appreciate waking up in the back of an ambulance, or worse, in police custody. Chance knew from personal experience that a concussed Guerrero was a potentially lethal Guerrero. He would fight with the ferocity of a wild animal, intent only on escape. Only when he had established that medical attention was an absolute necessity would he begrudgingly seek help, and even then it would be from one of his shady contacts who would ensure there were no records of Guerrero or his injury. Chance had to be there when he woke up. He refused to even consider 'if' he woke up, Guerrero __would__ wake up.

 _"Chance! The second gunman is down! Repeat: the second gunman is down! I'm on my way to question him. We should get a final number on how many men Seymour had with him!"_

"I hear you, Winston," Chance said softly, trying not to give his position away. "Keep your eyes open for Seymour!"

The gazebo was almost empty now, save for a few party guests still cowering under the tables, too scared to move. The last few gunshots had come from a different direction, off to one side and towards the back of the gazebo. Chance had hidden Alison's parents at the back of the tent, assuming that Seymour would come from the direction of the initial gunfire, but now he was doubting that assumption. His priority had been to hide Alison and get her parents off the stage so they weren't such an obvious target, but now he was concerned that they were in harm's way with only Mr Mcvey's small calibre pistol to fight Seymour off.

Keeping low to the ground, Chance broke cover and ran to the corner of the stage. There was a gap of about three feet between the side of the stage and the wall of the gazebo. Chance kept low and pressed himself against the side of the stage so that he wouldn't cast a telltale shadow against the canvas wall beside him, and crept silently towards the rear of the stage. He'd almost reached the corner when there was the crack of a gun firing followed by a scream.

"Alison! Where the fuck are you?" a man whose voice Chance didn't recognise shouted. "I know you're still in here, you stupid whore!"

Chance carefully inched towards the corner of the stage.

"Let my wife go and leave my daughter alone!" Mr Mcvey demanded in a slightly shaky voice.

"Shut the fuck up, old man... Alison!"

Chance heard a slightly muffled whimper, which he took to be coming from Mrs Mcvey. Judging from the acoustics of their voices, Chance gambled on the assumption that Seymour was standing closest to him with Mrs Mcvey held in front of him at gunpoint and Mr Mcvey stood opposite. He carefully took a quick glance around the corner to confirm he was correct: he was.

"Don't come out baby! Stay where you are!"

 _ _Shit__ , Mrs Mcvey had just confirmed that Alison was still inside the gazebo and within earshot. Chance couldn't risk shooting Seymour until Mrs Mcvey was clear. Seymour could fire out of reflex, or Chance's own bullet could pass through him and hit her. He needed a distraction.

"I'm coming out! Please don't hurt my mom!" a small voice said from within the stage.

When Chance heard the sound of the floor panel scraping across the stage, he dove forward and shouted "Get down!". Seymour had turned toward the stage at the sound of Alison's voice, as Chance knew he would, giving him a clear shot, and at the sound of Chance's voice, he pointed the gun away from Mrs Mcvey, towards Chance.

Chance fired off three rounds before Seymour could even aim, and he crumpled to the floor, dead before he even hit the ground.

Chance got to his feet and walked over to Seymour to check his pulse. As soon as he was satisfied that he was dead, he took the gun from his hand and ran out of the gazebo, leaving Alison in the arms of her relieved parents.

He didn't waste a second's thought on the man he'd just killed. The only thing going through his mind was that he had to get to Guerrero before he woke up mad enough to hurt any unsuspecting paramedics in the immediate vicinity.

Chance reached Guerrero just as the EMTs were loading him into an ambulance on a gurney. He was still unconscious and Chance was struck by how small and helpless he looked, especially without his glasses, which he must have lost in the fight. He tucked Seymour's gun into the back of his belt and began undoing the restraints that secured Guerrero to the gurney, shoving the paramedics away as they tried to stop him.

"Sir, you need to let us do our job!"

Chance pulled his own gun and, without looking up, pointed it at the paramedic who had spoken. "No, you need to let me do mine."

The paramedics exchanged a look and one of them reached for his radio, but Ames saw what he was doing and trained Guerrero's gun on him. He froze.

"Enough!" Ilsa said with such an authoritative tone that even Chance stopped pulling at the straps on the gurney and looked at her. "Chance, allow them to load him into the ambulance."

"But…"

"You!" she said, ignoring his protest and pointing to the EMT who'd been driving the ambulance. "Take this man to this address. He is to be released into the care of Dr Clayton Dematteo and no one else. Do you understand me?" She held out a business card with nothing but a San Francisco address and telephone number on it. The medic refused to take it.

"We have to take him to San Francisco General. We're not a taxi service…"

Ilsa realised that this probably wasn't the first time the paramedic had had a gun pulled on him.

"If you take him to San Francisco General, I will be forced to take measures, drastic measures to ensure his safety. Do you really want to be responsible for closing down the only Level One Trauma Centre for the city? There must be no record that you even saw this man. It is a matter of national security."

Ilsa could see the men were wavering as they exchanged a nervous look. She dipped her hand into her purse and retrieved four crisp one hundred dollar bills and added them to the business card she was offering the driver. It seemed to do the trick, and as the driver reached for them, Ilsa took his hand between hers as if they were shaking hands, and pressed the card and the cash into his palm.

"Her Majesty's government thanks you," she said, in a low, deliberate tone. The man's eyes widened slightly and he swallowed nervously. Ilsa nodded and released his hand.

Chance was staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open with surprise.

"Go," she urged him. "They'll need you when he wakes up. Dr Dematteo has been briefed."

Chance nodded and climbed into the back of the ambulance, still looking slightly shell-shocked.

Ames waited until the ambulance drove away before speaking. "Ilsa! That was awesome!"

"It's the accent," Ilsa said, looking a bit distant. "There's something about a woman with a well-spoken English accent that a certain type of American men seem to be hard-wired to obey. It's almost a Pavlovian response really, they can't help it."

"But you had this all planned!"

"I take my responsibilities as Guerrero's employer very seriously. He refused to take the health insurance that I offered him, so I made alternative arrangements for him, in case of emergencies." Ilsa took out her cell phone and began scrolling through the numbers. When she found the one she needed, she hit the button to place the call. "Dr Dematteo? Yes, I'm fine, but we have a code G. He's arriving in an ambulance. Head injury. ETA ten, maybe fifteen minutes."


	7. Chapter 7

Chance refused to let the EMT refasten the straps to keep Guerrero from rolling off the gurney. It meant that he had to crouch down beside him and hold him in place whenever they turned a corner, which was awkward, but still an infinitely better option than dealing with Guerrero's reaction to waking up and finding himself restrained. He begrudgingly allowed the EMT to attach a pulse oximeter to Guerrero's finger, but that's where he drew the line.

He studied Guerrero's face, searching for even the tiniest sign that he was about to regain consciousness. After about five minutes, during which the EMT sat in silence staring at Guerrero as if he were a bomb about to go off, Chance detected the slightest flutter of movement behind Guerrero's eyelids. He took the hand with the pulse oximeter and held it flat against his chest, and leaned in so his lips were almost touching his ear.

"Guerrero. Wake up, buddy," he murmured.

Guerrero's eyelids fluttered a little more noticeably, and the EMT took a penlight from his pocket and was about to check his pupil responses when Chance shoved him back in his seat.

"Not a good idea," Chance told him, before turning his attention back to Guerrero. "Do not freak out, Guerrero. Just open your eyes…"

Guerrero's eyes snapped open and he sat up, gripping his free hand around Chance's throat as if he was about to crush his airway. Chance didn't resist, he just calmly squeezed his other hand to his chest and waited for Guerrero's brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a few seconds, a long uncomfortable few seconds during which Chance could barely breathe, but recognition flashed in Guerrero's eyes and he let his hand fall away from his throat. He looked like he was about to say something, and Chance only just managed to grab a basin and shove it under his chin before he began to vomit.

"It's okay, buddy. I got you. " Chance said, pushing his hair out of his face.

Guerrero threw up a couple more times before they reached their destination, and between each bout of sickness he made it abundantly clear how he felt about hospitals and the medical profession in general.

"Just relax, okay?" Chance said. "You're not going to a hospital, but you need to get checked out. You were unconscious for nearly twenty minutes!"

Guerrero was still a bit too out of it to put up much of a fight, and that worried Chance. The ambulance finally stopped and the doors were thrown open by a professional looking man in his mid forties.

"I am Dr Dematteo, and this I take it is my patient," he said, looking at Guerrero with a wary curiosity. "I will take it from here, gentlemen."

Chance helped Guerrero down out of the ambulance. No one dared to suggest that he use a wheelchair. Chance had been expecting their destination to be an office, or even the doctor's own residence, but he was surprised to discover that they appeared to be in the grounds of a private school. As soon as Chance and Guerrero had vacated the back of the ambulance, it took off at speed. Chance was willing to bet that the EMTs wouldn't tell anyone about their strange patient.

"You must be Mr Chance," the doctor said. "Mrs Pucci speaks most highly of you. Let's get the patient inside, shall we?"

He led them inside a small brightly lit building, which Chance took to be the school's infirmary. The doctor took them through to an examination room and instructed Guerrero to sit down. Satisfied that he was not in a real hospital, and reassured by Chance and the doctor's insistence that there would be no record of his treatment, Guerrero reluctantly let the doctor examine him.

"Pupils equal and reactive," the doctor said shining a penlight in Guerrero's eyes. "That's a good sign."

"No shit," Guerrero grumbled, slapping the doctors hand away.

"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asked.

"Fuck you," Guerrero muttered half-heartedly.

"Is he normally this belligerent?" the doctor asked Chance, apparently unfazed by Guerrero's behaviour.

"Yes," Chance replied. "If not more so. Trust me, for him, these are normal responses."

The doctor nodded. "What exactly happened? Mrs Pucci only told me it was a head wound."

"Baseball bat," Guerrero said. "And a lucky punch."

"So you remember what happened?"

"It's crystal fucking clear."

"May I?" the doctor was wise enough to ask before gently checking Guerrero's head for lumps and abrasions. "It seems your friend has been extremely lucky, Mr Chance. I'll need to see an x-ray to be sure, but I think after a few days rest he should be fine."

"No x-rays," Guerrero insisted. "I'm not going to a fucking hospital!"

"Not to worry. I have the facilities here to take x-rays."

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

An hour later Dr Dematteo had examined the x-rays and finished checking Guerrero over.

"Normally I would recommend that you stay under medical supervision for the next twenty four hours so your condition can be properly monitored, but I understand that this will not be possible. However, you should not be alone for the next day or two. Someone will have to keep an eye on you."

"Not a problem, doc, Chance said. "He'll stay with me."

"I'm afraid I cannot offer you any pain relief with an injury of this nature, but if it doesn't improve over the next couple of days, you must return to see me or another physician."

Guerrero glared at the doctor, but didn't reply.

"Thanks doc," Chance said, because Guerrero obviously wasn't going to. "I'll see that he's okay."

"I believe there should be a car waiting for you outside."

Ames was waiting for them outside with the surveillance van. She'd changed back into her own clothes, but her feet were bare and rubbed raw. Chance raised his eyebrows and was about to ask her what had happened to her shoes, when she ran up to them as if she was going to hug Guerrero but thought better of it at the last moment, handing him his glasses instead.

"Is he okay?" she asked Chance as Guerrero wiped his glasses against the corner of his shirt and put them back on. "I mean, I know he's not okay, I can see that, but no lasting damage, right?"

"Doc recons nothing more than a concussion and bruising," Chance said.

"Dude, I'm right here!" Guerrero said sullenly. "I've got a headache but I'm still able to talk y'know."

Ames and Chance exchanged a look. If Guerrero was up to being snarky with them, it was definitely a good sign.

Now that he knew Guerrero was definitely going to be okay, Chance felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle in. Ames offered him the keys to van, but he shook his head.

"You drive. I'm beat."

"Are we going back to the office or…?"

"Guerrero is going to stay with me for a few days."

She nodded and climbed into the driver's seat. Guerrero sat up front and Chance got in the back. He knew Guerrero must be feeling like a passenger in his own life after being carted off in an ambulance against what everyone knew to be his wishes, so he let Guerrero take the front seat without complaint. They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Chance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the front seats and asked what had happened after he left.

"Well, when the cops showed up Winston and Ilsa had to do some pretty fast talking," Ames explained. "But the fact that Seymour's guys killed Alison's protective detail didn't exactly win Seymour and his pals much sympathy. Besides, all the bad guys are dead so it's not like there will be a trial or anything. Winston's pretty certain that the whole thing should be wrapped up pretty soon."

"They're all dead?" Chance asked. "I thought Winston had one guy for questioning."

"Nuh-uh," Ames said shaking her head. "He bled out before the paramedics arrived. He did confirm that there were just three guys plus Seymour though."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

"So what happened?" Ames asked. "One minute you're kissing Alison frickin' Mcvey and the next all hell breaks loose!"

Chance gave Ames a quick rundown as to what had happened in the gazebo and how he took Seymour out.

"So you got to be the hero again then," Ames said, with a strained little smile. Chance could see that she was struggling to keep the conversation light and easy, but there was an underlying tension to her body language that screamed that she was far from okay.

"Yeah, I guess," Chance shrugged. "It is kinda in my job description."

"So are you going to see Alison again?" she asked playfully.

"No, I don't think so. She's not really my type."

"You should so call her!" Ames said. "She was like, all over you on the dance floor! Not to mention that she stuck her tongue down your…"

"Just, shut the fuck up!" Guerrero snapped. "I get it! Chance saved the day! Everything is just hunky-fucking-dory! No big deal!"

Ames went very pale, and her mouth hardened into a thin line as she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She took a hard right and slammed on the breaks, bringing the van to a screeching halt in a side street.

"Ames, what the…" Guerrero started to ask.

"IT IS A BIG DEAL!" she screamed at him. "It's a big fucking deal because when I saw you one the ground, not moving I thought you were fucking DEAD, you asshole!" The two men sat in shocked silence for a moment, and Ames rested her head on the steering wheel taking deep shuddering breaths as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to start falling.

"Well, I'm not," Guerrero said.

Ames sat back up, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I can see that now, you douche."

"There's no need to get all pre-menstrual about it, jeez," Guerrero muttered.

"Fuck you," Ames replied, throwing the van into reverse and getting them back on the road back to the office.

"You might wanna consider waterproof make-up if you're gonna make a habit out of bawling your eyes out. You're putting Chris Crocker's eyeliner to shame right now, dude."

Chance smiled as tension in the van lifted as Ames and Guerrero bickered with each other all the way back to the office.


	8. Chapter 8

When they got back to the office, Guerrero slunk upstairs to Chance's quarters without saying a word.

"A thank you would be nice!" Ames called after him.

"He'll never show it, but he does care," Chance said.

"Yeah, well that was so obvious, what with all the bitching and name calling on the way home," Ames grumbled.

"Isn't that kind of normal for you guys, though?" Chance asked. "You wind him up, and he insults you back?"

"Yeah, I guess," Ames shrugged. "But after what happened…"

"You ever think that this is his way of showing you that everything is fine? That there's nothing to worry about?"

Ames thought about that for a moment. "You guys are so emotionally retarded."

Chance gave her one of his 'what can you do?' shrugs.

"I'm going home," Ames said. "And I'm taking tomorrow off!"

Chance called Winston, to check in and let him know that Guerrero was okay.

"Why am I not surprised?" Winston said. "That man has more lives than a cat!"

He considered calling Ilsa too, but Winston said that he'd already taken her home and she'd spoken to Dr Dematteo already. Chance sighed as he hung up the call. It seemed that there was nothing left for him to do but take care of Guerrero.

He decided to take Guerrero a cup of tea. He'd probably need to re-hydrate after being sick so many times, and besides, taking him something would give him some kind of purpose. Chance was physically and emotionally drained, so maybe observing the social niceties of offering a guest a drink would do something to force some kind of normality onto the situation. Chance doubted it, after all this was Guerrero he was dealing with, but it couldn't hurt to try.

Chance took the tea upstairs, along with a box of crackers in case Guerrero felt up to eating something, but rather than heading for the bedroom, Guerrero had stretched out on the couch in front of a wildlife documentary on the TV. He looked up when Chance walked in and accepted the tea and crackers without a word. Chance shoved Guerrero's legs out of the way and sat down next to him on the couch.

"You were a little hard on Ames," Chance said, when it became apparent that Guerrero was content to sit in silence. "You really scared her tonight."

"Serves her right for yelling at me," Guerrero said, apparently unaware of how juvenile that made him sound. "In case you hadn't worked this out, a baseball bat to the head tends to leave you with a bit of a headache."

"You kinda scared me too," Chance said. Guerrero turned to look at him, but Chance's gaze was still fixed on the images on the TV of penguins swimming for their lives as they were chased by orcas.

"Ames is a drama queen," Guerrero grumbled, staring at the TV again.

"It doesn't mean you should take it out on her, though. Why are you so angry? So the guy with the baseball bat got the jump on you, so what? Shit happens!"

"Yeah, well that particular shit shouldn't have happened!" Guerrero scowled. Chance glanced over at him and it suddenly struck him just how angry Guerrero was, and that it wasn't really directed at Ames. She'd just had the misfortune of being nearby and annoying at the wrong moment. The person Guerrero was really angry with was himself.

"What really happened, Guerrero?" Chance asked. "Why did that guy get the jump on you?"

Guerrero ignored him. Chance waited, but Guerrero seemed to consider the subject closed. He sat there for a while longer, watching him drink his tea, before turning his gaze back onto the TV, trying to figure out why he was so pissed. Guerrero was usually fairly stoic about getting injured. In their line of work getting hurt from time to time was part of the job, but he seemed to be blaming himself for getting knocked unconscious, and that was very unusual. Chance considered that maybe he was annoyed because he'd been taken out by a guy with a baseball bat when he was armed with a gun, but he ruled that out pretty quickly. They both knew from experience that superior fire-power was no guarantee of success. So what was it that was bothering him?

Chance thought over the evenings events, searching for a clue that would explain Guerrero's behaviour. Guerrero had seemed fine when Chance had dinner with Alison, he'd even recommended the lamb, and he'd been right, it was very good. There had been a small problem with the comms being too loud that Guerrero had blamed on Winston, but Chance put that down to Guerrero's ongoing mission to drive Winston crazy. When he'd been dancing with Alison at the party, Guerrero had actually encouraged him to ask her out, but Chance had caught the sarcastic edge to his voice that clearly signalled to him that Guerrero did not approve of her.

What happened after that? Alison dragged him onto the stage, the cameras went down, Guerrero went to check on them, getting attacked as he left the van and Alison had kissed him in front of the baying crowd. He thought about the sequence of events for a few moments before he realised that the order was all wrong. Guerrero had begun cursing __as__ Alison was kissing him, and it had been immediately __after__ the kiss that he'd said the cameras had gone down. So the last thing Guerrero had seen on the monitors before they died, and he ran head first into a guy with a baseball bat, had been Alison kissing him…

Slowly realisation began to dawn. Guerrero had only started really yelling at Ames when she persisted in asking Chance about seeing Alison again…

Could it really be that simple? Was Guerrero worried about him getting involved with Alison? If he'd been distracted by seeing them kiss on the monitor, it could explain why Guerrero was so annoyed. If he'd been distracted by idle speculation, letting his feelings override his keen sense of self-preservation like that would definitely make him angry with himself.

To be fair, Chance's love life had been a thorn in both their sides. Guerrero had had to deal with the fall-out from Chance's relationship with Maria no less than three times, and Chance was well aware that the tension between himself and Ilsa was something that Guerrero could happily live with never having to hear about again. And then there was Katherine Walters, the woman who was responsible for them nearly killing each other.

Chance turned to Guerrero, ready to challenge him with his theory, but Guerrero had nodded off. Chance sighed, his questions would have to wait. Between the concussion and the exhaustion, Guerrero was unlikely to be receptive to the idea of talking about Chance's love-life.

Chance fetched some clean sweatpants and a t-shirt from his bedroom, and dumped them on Guerrero's lap. Guerrero groaned and opened his eyes.

"Dude, I was sleeping.." he protested.

"Yeah, well you're not sleeping on the couch tonight," Chance said firmly. "Put those on and get to bed."

"I'm fine on the couch."

"Bed, Guerrero. You're injured, and sleeping on the couch really isn't going to do you any favours."

Guerrero still refused to move.

Chance sighed. "I'm way too tired to argue about this right now. I'm going to take a shower, and if you're still on the couch when I'm done, I will fucking carry you to bed if I have to!"

Guerrero frowned, but the threat seemed to do the trick. He dragged himself to his feet and pushed past Chance, heading for the bedroom.

Chance showered quickly but thoroughly. He didn't want to leave Guerrero on his own for any length of time in case he had any bright ideas about driving himself home with a concussion. Chance was glad to wash away the lingering scent of Alison's cloying perfume from his skin. He needed to scrub away every last trace of the Matthew King persona so he could feel like himself again.

He towelled himself off, slipped on an old pair of sweat pants and walked through to his bedroom to check on Guerrero. He was already fast asleep and Chance simply didn't have the mental energy to give his theory any more thought. He flopped into the armchair in the corner of the room and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Chance work up with a serious crick in his neck, wondering why he'd fallen asleep in the armchair when he had a perfectly comfortable bed at his disposal. He groaned, digging his fingers into the knotted muscles of his shoulders for a moment before he remembered that Guerrero was supposed to be asleep on the bed. It was empty.

He swore colourfully and at length as he threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, grabbing a pair of sneakers as he headed out in search of Guerrero. The kitchen was empty, but there was an empty mug that was still slightly warm to the touch, which meant that he hadn't missed Guerrero by much.

He sprinted down the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, and as he ran into the garage he spotted Guerrero opening his driver side car door.

"Hey!" Chance called out as he jogged over to him. "You're not supposed to be driving yet! The doc said you need to be watched for the next day or two. Keep an eye out for complications or whatever."

"Which is one of the reasons I don't usually ask anyone's opinion over something as trivial as a bump on the head, dude! I'm fine. Nothing a couple of asprin won't fix. Quit fussing!"

"You were out cold for like twenty minutes, Guerrero. Plus you chucked your guts up repeatedly. We both know those are signs of a nasty concussion, so why don't we just skip the argument and I'll drive you wherever you have to go, okay?"

Chance guessed that he was still feeling a lot crappier than he let on because he handed him the car keys without further protest.

"So where are we going?" Chance asked once the were both seated in the car.

"My apartment in Northbeach," Guerrero replied, removing his glasses and rubbing at his temples in a way that suggested Chance may have been right about just how rough he was still feeling.

Chance nodded. He knew Guerrero had a number of properties scattered around the city, but the one in Northbeach was the only one he'd ever visited before. He reasoned that Guerrero felt that he wasn't giving much away by having him drive him there. Guerrero glared at him when he insisted on following him up to the apartment whilst he grabbed a change of clothes and a few essentials, suspecting that the reason had more to do with yanking his chain than any real concern he was about to keel over. Actually Chance was more concerned that he might try and slip off on his own, but he played along with the idea that he was just trying to wind him up by grinning and making suggestions about how to make the place more handicap-friendly.

They stopped off at a sandwich shop on the way back to the office. Chance knew that, contrary to popular opinion, it was food that soothed the savage beast, not music. Guerrero tucked into his sandwich straight away, but Chance was going to have to wait. There was no way he could drive and eat at the same time, the sandwich he'd ordered was definitely a two-hander. So they sat in silence as Guerrero demolished a sandwich big enough to comfortably feed a family of four, and Chance was reassured that, despite the recent head trauma, there was nothing wrong with Guerrero's appetite.

"So, you ever going to tell me why you felt the need to run head first into a baseball bat or not?" Chance asked.

Guerrero grunted, but didn't reply.

"Just so you know, Alison isn't my type. Also I had everything under control so there was no need for you to worry."

"Yeah, well I've heard that one before. You didn't exactly seem focused on the job in hand."

"Okay, I may have been momentarily distracted..."

"And that always ends so well, doesn't it? I mean, you've never let a pretty face and a smokin' body distract you before, right?"

Chance didn't reply as memories of burnt cookies and past mistakes leapt unbidden into his mind. Alison Mcvey was a spoiled little rich girl who would never, could never affect him the way Katherine Walters had, but in the light of the mistakes he'd made with Maria and Ilsa, maybe Guerrero was justified in his concerns.

"Like I said, Alison isn't my type. Just do me a favour and look both ways next time."

The atmosphere between them was still tense when they walked out of the elevator to find Winston and Ilsa were there talking to Alison Mcvey.

"Speak of the devil," Winston said.

"Mr Chance, Alison just stopped by to thank you for your assistance at the party last night," Ilsa said.

"I hope she's here to settle her bill too," Guerrero muttered, getting a sharp look from Ilsa.

"Don't mind him," Winston smiled, trying to smooth things over. "He's concussed."

"And whose fault is that?" Guerrero grumbled, pushing past them to get to the kitchen.

There was an awkward pause.

"Mr Chance," Alison said. "I was hoping that I might take you to lunch, as a thank you for all you've done for me."

"I've actually got plans for lunch," Chance said, holding up the bag containing his sandwich.

"Oh, well… Perhaps dinner then?" she persisted.

"Actually Alison, my colleague was quite badly hurt by one of your ex-husband's friends. He needs someone to keep an eye on him and it wouldn't be right for me to hit the town when he's still recuperating."

"I can keep I eye on Guerrero," Winston said, he's eyes wide with disbelief that Chance would seriously consider passing up the opportunity to have dinner again with the attractive actress.

"No dude, you really can't," Guerrero's voice called out from the kitchen.

"I'm sure we could make alternative arrangements for someone to keep an eye on Mr Guerrero so that you could enjoy a well deserved night out…" Ilsa said, ignoring Guerrero's objection.

"That won't be necessary, Ilsa. Thank you for the invitation, Alison," Chance said smiling politely, "but I think after last night's excitement, I'll be staying home for the foreseeable future."

Alison blushed as it finally sank in that she was being given the brush-off. Chance was willing to bet that it wasn't something she was used to dealing with, at least not from the receiving end.

"Well, I'm glad we were able to help you, Alison," Ilsa said, a bit too brightly. "I know it wasn't exactly an ideal outcome…"

"Huh," Chance grunted.

Ilsa gave him an odd look.

"Six dead - including two cops - and one of our team injured," Chance said. "I think that's a hell of a long way from ideal."

"Yes, well under the circumstances…" Ilsa said, before Chance interrupted her again.

"We would have been working under much better circumstances if Alison had informed us beforehand that her ex-husband had a gang of cronies who were likely to back him up." The colour drained from Alison's face as Chance spoke, leaving her looking grey and sullen. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't feel like celebrating."

Chance walked out to the kitchen before Ilsa could stop gaping at his rudeness. Winston was a little quicker off the mark.

"Chance takes the loss of life extremely seriously, Miss Mcvey…"


	10. Epilogue

Guerrero was sipping a cup of tea when Chance walked into the kitchen and pulled up a chair.

"'Staying home for the foreseeable future'? Dude, that was harsh." Guerrero said. "I like it."

Chance flashed him a quick smile, before unwrapping his sandwich and getting stuck in. He had his mouth conveniently full when Ilsa stormed in a few minutes later, followed by Winston.

"Where the hell do you get off, talking to Alison like that? If you didn't want to have dinner with the poor girl, you only had to say!"

Chance pointed to his mouth, to indicate that he couldn't speak with a mouthful of food, whilst Guerrero sniggered into his mug of tea.

"Ilsa," Winston said in a soothing tone. "Chance could have been a bit more diplomatic but…"

"'A bit more diplomatic'! Really? You think so?"

"But, he has a point," Winston continued. "Six people died last night, and Alison turns up today, all sweetness and light, expecting to get a date? It's a little insensitive, don't you think? Especially as she used to be married to one of the men that died. I know she's your friend, but doesn't that strike you as a little bit callous?"

"Chance ought to sue her for sexual harassment in the work place," Guerrero added. "First she publicly mauls Chance when he's on the job, then she turns up here for a booty call? Not cool."

Chance almost choked on his sandwich.

Ilsa sighed and her indignation faded away, leaving her looking rather tired. "I suppose you're right. She is rather self-centred. I may have over-stated the case somewhat when I referred to her as a friend. I've met her on numerous occasions at various benefits, but I never really got to know her very well as a person. I shouldn't have asked you to take the case at such short notice, with such little information."

" Ah, don't worry about it. We've handled worse cases than that," Winston said reassuringly. "No real harm done."

"Seriously, dude? I get knocked out cold for twenty minutes and get dragged off in an ambulance to go see a freakin' doctor and that's 'no harm done'?" Guerrero said.

"Yeah, well you're still here and bitching about it, aren't you?" Winston said, deliberately baiting him.

Chance had swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, and he decided now was probably a good time to join the conversation before Winston and Guerrero really started arguing in earnest.

"Ilsa, you did the right thing in bringing us the case," he said. "If we hadn't been there, things could have been a lot worse."

"Thank you, Chance," she said. "I really needed to hear that. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, it was uncalled for. I just hardly slept last night and… Oh Guerrero! I haven't even asked you how you're feeling! I'm so sorry!"

"I'm fine, Ilsa. Don't sweat it. I'll crash here for a couple of nights, just to be on the safe side, but I'm okay."

Ilsa nodded, but Winston frowned. "Did you just say 'to be on the safe side'? Don't tell me that a concussion finally knocked some common sense into that thick skull of yours!"

"It's no big deal," Guerrero shrugged. "I figured I'd have a movie marathon with Chance. Maybe check out the new releases on Netflix."

"Oh no! Not again! If you think you're going to charge more rentals to my account, I'll…"

"You'll what?" Guerrero deadpanned. "Change your password to the name of a childhood pet? Favourite colour? Name of the street where you grew up?"

Ilsa sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples as if she had a headache coming on. "I think I really should go home and catch up on my sleep."

Chance smiled and took another bite of his sandwich. It was good to be back to business as usual.


End file.
